


The Story of Grandmother

by elleorwhatever



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluffy, Lots of laughing, Roleplay, Smut, Strip Tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6253423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elleorwhatever/pseuds/elleorwhatever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or an Early Version of Little Red Riding Hood</p><p>Based on what the can says.  Solas and Aoife find a copy of this fable and decide to act it out.  Silliness and smut and feels ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Story of Grandmother

**Author's Note:**

> I based this on one of the earliest versions of Red Riding Hood, which I've posted to tumblr [here](http://elleorwhatever.tumblr.com/storyofgrandmother). Or you can just google "Story of Grandmother." It's extremely different from the Grimm's version. You don't have to read it for this story because I've included (and edited) the relevant parts, but it's interesting. There's a striptease! And a poop joke!

Solas idly pulled a red-bound volume from the shelves, glancing at her back bent over the hearth some paces away down the long, white-marbled room.  Her hands were arranging kindling, dancing around the lick of flames.  They’d been lucky; the nobleman’s servants had firewood stored away before they’d fled in the wake of Gaspard and Celene’s civil war.  Rain tapped the expensive, clear-cut glass windows of this library, empty but for the infinite silent voices of books and the two of them, squatting in the abandoned estate.

“Think the others will be alright?” Aoife asked.  She sat back on her heels, stretching her arms.

The group had separated the day before; a rift near a settlement needed urgent help, and so did some of Fairbanks’s people.  And then a sudden downpour had sent them running for shelter.  Solas put back the red-bound self-indulgent treatise on the divine right of noble blood.  He picked up another book.  As far as hastily sought shelters went, they could hardly do better.

“Solas?” she said, but she was looking around the stacks, already he could see her mind wandering from the conversation.

“I doubt we need worry over Sera melting in the rain for sweetness.”

She chuckled, but her attention was turning and she was thumbing through the books, as well.  He watched as her eyes roamed, and she silently mouthed something.  Her lips parted pink, petite.  That one line of her vallaslin that curved around her lower lip, descended down her throat.

He would be lying if he said he wasn’t looking forward to their time alone.

But her eyes were not on him.  She was stepping in the shallows of open pages, brows rising and lowering as she considered whether or not to step further into this book’s or that book’s depths.  And that was perhaps the worse temptation -- how her mind was working, turning, musing, always and constantly.

He should leave her to it, at least for a while, but.  He never did claim to be a selfless man.

Solas picked up a different red book, slim, gold-edged, illustrated.  He flipped it open, searching.  Waited a moment, and then let out what he was fairly certain was a casual chuckle.

Aoife looked up. “Something good?”

“The caprice of nobility will never cease to amaze,” he said.  He flourished the open pages at her.

It was too far to read from where she stood, so she closed the distance between them.  She glanced at him, brows tilted, and took the book.  Kept a thumb where Solas had it open, and turned to the cover.

“ _Tales of the Common and Fables of the Rustic_ ,” Aoife read.

He tapped the fine paper, the soft leather binding.

“And how better for a landowner to know his lessers than to acquaint himself with their tales?” he said.

Aoife glanced at him again, suspicious of his lilting tone.  She began to read his opened page.  And then a smirk was flitting at the edges of her mouth.

She read aloud, “‘ _Undress, my child,’ said the wolf, ‘and come and sleep beside me.’_

_‘Where should I put my apron?’_

_‘Throw it in the fire, my child, you don’t need it anymore--’_ ”

She flipped through the rest of the book. “These are all bawdy tales.  Tavern songs.  With gold leaf!”  She laughed.

“How refreshing it must be,” Solas said. “To put down the overwrought, corseted literature of powdered  Val Royeaux ladies, and dream instead of shepherdesses, milkmaids with healthy thighs.  Rosy cheeks.”

He reached out, and with a single finger stroked her flock of freckles, the permanent flush that could wane and wax to a fascinating spectrum of pinks and reds.  Her breath thickened, and his own throat caught, as they stared at one another.

She broke away, though, looking back down at the book.  He waited, watched as her eyes roamed over the lines.  And then, crushing the thing between them, she pulled upward, and pulled him downward into a crushing kiss.  Quick, consuming lips that dropped just as quickly.

Aoife smiled, grabbed his hand and tugged.

“Come,” she commanded.

And he followed as she pulled him into the circle of warmth around the hearth.  She sat him against the wall, and he obeyed, stifling urges to reach for her.  Her eyes were lit by the fire, and they were crinkled at the edges, probing him, turning over his stomach in pleasant anticipation.

Aoife gave him back the book.

“I want you to read this to me,” she said.

“Read it to you?” Solas said, innocently.

She arched a brow. “Yes.” She tapped the page. “Especially here.  I want you to be the wolf.”  She let her voice get low and breathy.

She leaned in, kissed him again.  Her tongue, slipped in to tease and warm against his lips.  It’s good that she did; it hid what he hoped was only a flash of regret in his face.  She wanted him to be the wolf.  

Perhaps this was a mistake.

But it was hard to think of things like regret and mistakes as she walked away, rolling on her feet so that the sway climbs her legs, settled in her hips.  It was hard to have regrets when she looked at him that way.  When he cannot imagine going back to the lonely, desaturated pallor of his life before her.

He looked down at the book in his hands.

He read aloud, “ _There was once a woman who had some bread, and she said to her daughter: ‘You are going to carry a hot loaf and a bottle of milk to your grandmother._ ’”

Aoife hummed, unlacing her boots.  She tossed them aside.  Along with her bits of light leather armor.

“ _She met a wolf on the path to grandmother’s house.  The wolf asked where she was going, and when he heard, he ran ahead of the girl.  He killed the old woman and climbed into her bed._

 _The girl arrived, and said--_ ”

Aoife interjected, “ _‘I’ve a hot loaf and a bottle of milk for you.’_ ”  Her hands were fiddling at her side.

“ _‘Nevermind, dear,’ said the wolf. ‘Undress, my dear.  And come and sleep beside me.’_ ”

“ _Where should I put my tunic?_ ” she said.

She looked at him, their eyes met.  And with a deliberately slow motion, she pulled apart the unlaced lips of her tunic at her chest.  Her fingers ran from the base of her throat, feathered over her clavicle, lingered near her breasts, and parted it fully at her navel.  She pulled it off, caressing one shoulder, and then the other, slowly, slowly.  All the while, staring him down.

Solas licked his lips.  “ _Throw it in the fire, dear.  You don’t need it anymore._ ”

And then Aoife threw her tunic in the fire.

The tunic that was woven with an enchantment of protection that had probably already saved her life several times.  The tunic that was made with fine, durable Fereldan cotton and wool, that had not been cheap.  The tunic dyed to her favorite shade of summer green, intricate white lillies embroidered on the edges.  The tunic she did not have a replacement for in her pack.

The two of them watched as the fire began to smoke.

“ _Shit_ ,” Aoife swore, diving after it. “ _Shit shit shitshitshit._ ”

Panicked, she yelped as she plucked it off the embers.  She threw it on the marble.

“ _Oh shit shit--_ ”

She stomped the flames out, making strange, yipping sounds as her bare feet hit the burning edges of the tunic.

“ _Oh shit.  Oh shit._ ”

She dropped to her knees and slapped at the fabric.  Her eyes were wide and comical.

Solas, in the meantime, had fallen to his side, shaking with laughter.  He would say something to her, remind her she was a mage, really he would, but he was wracked by one spasm of laughter after another.  He gasped, tears leaking from his eyes.

The fire managed, Aoife glared at him.

And then he snorted.  Not just the dry little snort he knew he had sometimes after a chuckle.  But a real, prolonged snort of considerable volume.  It even came in parts; a stuttering, paralyzing triplicate of snorts.  Utterly undignified.

Aoife leaped up. “ _You snorted_.”

“I did not.”

“You did too!”

She fell, sliding to his side, colliding with him in a tangle of knees.  Laying on top of him, she planted kisses on his face.  Forehead, cheeks, nose, lips.  Chanting: you snorted, you snorted, you snorted.

He slid his hands around her, holding her close.  What was he to do?  If that was all it took to receive such treatment, well-- a little dignity could be sacrificed.  He laughed.

Then the kisses slowed down, became a little less innocent, a little more languid.  They petered off until they were pressed against each other, breathing deep.  He ran his hands down her bare back, thumbed the edges of her breastband, and lingered on her ass.  He smiled.

“Perhaps we could try again,” he said. “Without throwing the clothes in the fire.”

Giving him a half-hearted glare, she sat up.  He followed, catching her chin, and bit gently, sucked, on her lower lip, following that maddening vallaslin line and parting her mouth.  She sighed into the kiss.  His tongue gave a cursory flick to the contours of her mouth, and then he pulled away.

He smirked at her.  She caught her breath, narrowing her eyes at him.

Disentangling herself, Aoife stood.  She kicked  her singed tunic out of the way.  Gracefully twirling back to face him, she stared down her nose into his eyes.

“Where were we?” she asked. “Ah, yes--”

Her fingers thread the laces of her leggings, under her bellybutton.  She pulled, slowly, slowly, one lace and then the other.  The white cotton of her smalls peeked through, as the edges of the leggings came apart.  But she turned about quickly, denying him even that much.  Her back bent, her rear high, and the leggings are peeled off, slowly, slowly.

It’s on display: between her legs where her sex is thinly covered, and her hands caressed where he could not.  Light, delicate fingers on her cheeks, sliding down the length of her legs, the inner side of her thighs.  Without warning, she pulled up, faced him.

“ _Where should I put my leggings?_ ” Aoife asked.

It took Solas a moment to realize that she was waiting for his line.  Alright, so she won this round.

“ _Throw it in the fire, you don’t need it anymore_ ,” he said, with a minimum of choking.

She tossed the garment elsewhere, definitively away from the fire.

The breastband is undone, fell into one hand.  Her tits are small and pink.  They are set high, erect, heaving with her excitement, stuttered breathing.  A hand cups one, the fingers stroking circles.  His mouth waters, empty.

“ _Where should I put my breastband?_ ”

“ _Throw it in the fire, you don’t need it anymore_.”

Her thumbs hooked the sides of her smalls.  They angle out, putting air between cloth and skin.  She breathed, stared at him.  And though they’re dark with want, her eyes were steady.  She was contemplating him.  Of her need of him, or his of her, or what, he could not be sure.  It was, truthfully, more than he deserved; to be looked at with full consideration of who he was.  Who he was, stripped of titles, albeit unbeknownst to her.  He was a wolf.  She let the smalls fall, and he was pressed against his breeches.

The game was abandoned briefly, as she kneeled over him, and they collide.  Lips chasing lips chasing groans.  His mouth insistent on her throat, coaxing more of those sounds.  Sweat on their tongues, slipping on the hands that are fast, pressing, exploratory.  She pulled up enough to peel his sweater over his head.  Released, he dragged her forward, catching a breast between tender teeth.  She hummed in appreciation, clutching around his neck.

“The next part,” she said huskily. “Just Solas, I think.”

He was distracted by her nipples and her hands sliding over his chest and the growing heat of his cock.  The book had been tossed somewhere; was she really going to keep playing at that?

“What?”

“Unless you _want_ me to call you Grandmother,” she said.  “Ah- really, keep up.  You were the one that brought this up in the first place.”

Just Solas.  He looked at her.  She’s smiling, eyes crinkled, mouth bit and red and her whole face blood-rushed.  She said it to tease, but she does not realize the weight of it.  To be just Solas.  She sees something in his face.  He smiled, to reassure her, and placed soft lips on her collar.

“Go ahead,” he said.

She puts on a silly falsetto. “ _Oh, Solas, how hairy you are!_ ”  She rubbed his bald pate.

He laughed, and let go of her briefly.  He recovered, coughing.  She grinned at him.

“ _The better to keep you warm, my dear_ ,” he said.  His hand leaped between her legs.

She murmured wordlessly and her eyes shift as he stroked.  His fingers slid to find purchase in her slickness.

“Uhm. A-- _Oh, Solas, what wicked claws you have!_ ”

“ _The better to scratch with, my dear_.”

A single finger, and then another, to curl and circle and spread.  Her body shifted, pushing into his hand and her hands pushing down into him.  She pulled hard on the laces of his breeches.  She took him gasping and their small noises were confused, indistinguishable.

“ _Oh, Solas, what big ears you have!_ ”

He made an impatient sound as her hands lifted away.  Instead, they tugged at his ears.  Astonished, he stared at her.  It was hardly fair.  To have such a smile as she did, that allowed one to get away anything.  Despite himself, he giggled along with her.  It was ridiculous.  All of this was.

His fingers flexed, thrust, faster.

“ _The better to hear you with, dear_.”

She obliged, keening.

And they were consumed with each other.  With their open, red mouths, their off-kilter breaths.  Smell of the road, earth, and salt.  Sharp and full and hot.  There were other lines to play at, but neither seemed to wish to pause for them.  Mindful of the unforgiving marble, he laid her back, pursuing with fingers and tongue.

She was teasing today; reeling her heat along him in a fast grind, pitching away suddenly.  An ebb and flow too hot and fast; more likely to leave him wrecked than sated.  Cries a little too breathy to be convincing, and directly in his ear.

But then they were both going a little mad from it, and then they were bound by one another, full and cast deep under, moving and shuddering in unison.

Between the beats, the percussive pleasure, he saw her eyes wander for a moment, and then become distracted.  Her lips bit around what he recognized as suppressed laughter.  Those eyes, the ones he hungered to have on him always, turned back to him.

“ _Solas_.”

He lipped at her mouth, too distracted to kiss more skillfully than rote muscle memory.

She breathed into it, “ _Solas._ ”

He realized she wasn’t calling for him, but calling for his attention.  She pulled his head to the side, her mouth against his ear.

“ _Snort for me, vhenan._ ”

He pulled back, stared at her incredulously.

She fell back, laughing in earnest.  He breathed hard, annoyed and heated with arousal.  In retaliation, he slid deeper.  She gasped.  But laughed as well, and laughed too when his hands pressed her breasts, his teeth worked her neck.  She moaned and laughed into it until she was helpless and weak.

Solas pulled away again.

“Are you alright?” he asked, trying but very much failing to not sound too irritated.

She had an arm slung over her eyes, breathing hard.  A pause, and then she uncovered her face to look up at him.  She was red and smiling and her hair was sweat-soaked and her eyes glittered.  And she was so, so beautiful.

“I can’t help it,” she breathed.  She lifted a hand, and she cupped his cheek with a tenderness that undid him more than anything before.

“ _Ar lath ma, Solas._ ”

Ah.

Shit.

Emotion hit him like a sudden summer storm, choked him.  Here, between her legs and in her arms he found meaning that had no words, no possible comparison.  He had her, and yet it wasn’t enough.  He hadn’t known his need of her until quite recently, relative to the eons he had spent before without.  But it was all empty compared to this moment.  And even this moment was not enough.  It never would be.  He would take what he could now, and always, always after hunger for more.  Even when the moment came that she knew how truly undeserving he was.  After all, he was a wolf.

She saw the change in his face.  She pulled him close.  She tightened her hold on him.  They moved again.  Now, it wasn’t funny, there was no laughter.  And yet, it _was_ funny, and there _was_ laughter.  But of the deeper kind.  It was the deep emotion that would last an eternity.  It would last long after this brief respite was spent.  It was joy.

Later, they sat by the hearth.  Aoife lifted up her tunic in despair.  The green was mottled with burns and ash, the embroidery crumbling.  The hem was considerably higher; the neckline drooped.

“I really liked this.”

“We must all make sacrifices for love.”

She snapped the burnt thing at him as he laughed.


End file.
